FROM THE CLOUDS
“What’s happened?” shouted out Ned Towner, in dismay and confusion.
“Dobbin ran away, that’s all,” replied Dave quickly.
“Why?” asked Ned, righting himself and looking around him in a puzzled
way.
“Something struck him.”
Dave made the declaration as he dismounted cautiously from the wagon.
Dobbin lay on his side as if perfectly satisfied with a rest in the soft
dirt. One wheel of the wagon was splintered to pieces and the wagon box
had caved in on one side.
“Hold his head till I slip the traces,” ordered Dave.
They got Dobbin to his feet and managed to pull the wagon up the slight
slant.
“Whew!” whistled Ned, “here’s a pretty bad wreck.”
“Yes,” assented Dave soberly. “I don’t know what Mr. Warner will say
about it.”
“Let him say!” flared out Ned. “The old thing was ready for the junk
pile, long ago.”
“That won’t help much,” said Dave.
As he spoke Dave went over to a stretch of broken fence and dragged a
long rail up to the wagon. This he strapped to the hub of the broken
wheel.
“I guess the wagon will drag home,” he observed, as he hitched up Dobbin
anew, “but we will have to walk.”
“Say,” broke in Ned suddenly, “you think something hit the horse and
started him up?”
“I am sure of that,” declared Dave.
“Then I’ll bet it’s one of those Bolgers. See, we’re right at the end of
their lot. You know they pelted you once before?”
“I know that,” admitted Dave, “but I don’t see or hear anything of them
just now.”
“Oh, they’d lay in ambush in that brush yonder all night to play a trick
on either of us,” insisted Ned.
The Bolgers were a family crowd very numerous and troublesome. They had
often pestered Dave in the past, and, aroused by the suggestion of his
comrade, Dave walked back the road a dozen feet or so, peering sharply
into the straggly brush lining it.
“What is it, Dave?” inquired Ned, as his friend uttered a quick cry. He
noticed that Dave had come to a short stop and was stooping over in the
road.
“My foot kicked something,” explained Dave, groping about. “Why, I
wonder what this is?”
“What?” put in Ned curiously.
“It’s a bundle of some kind.”
“Why, yes,” added Ned, peering sharply at the object in Dave’s hand. “It
looks like a rolled-up sweater.”
“Some one must have dropped it from a wagon,” said Dave. “There’s
something else here than a sweater, though.”
“Let’s have a look at it,” suggested Ned eagerly.
“Hold on,” said Dave, as his comrade reached out to unroll the wadded-up
bundle. “It’s too dark to make out anything plain.”
The moon had not yet come up, and on that tree-lined road it was pretty
dark. Dave moved up to the wagon. Under the front seat was an oil
lantern, and he secured this and lighted it.
“Why, I should say there was something else besides a sweater!”
exclaimed Ned excitedly, as Dave unrolled the garment on the seat
cushion.
“Yes, there’s a pocket book,” said Dave.
“Open it—let’s see what’s in it,” suggested Ned.
“A watch,” spoke Dave.
“And some money. Why, this is a big find, Dave! Wonder who lost it? And
look, there’s a medal—a gold medal.”
Dave took this up and inspected it closely. His fingers trembled with
excitement as he did so, for the pretty bauble suggested the theme
nearest and dearest to his heart.
The main plate of the medal was chased with the outline of an airship.
Pendant from this by two tiny gold chains was a little strip of metal,
and on this was inscribed the words: “Presented to Robert A. King by the
C. A. A. First Endurance Prize.”
“Why, I know where this came from!” cried Dave suddenly.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“It fell out of that airship that just went over us. It was this bundle
that hit the horse and made him run away.”
“Why—why—” stammered Ned in great excitement. “Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it. That name there, too—‘King’. I read about him being
down at the meet at Fairfield in a paper yesterday, and ‘C. A. A.’ means
Central Aero Association.”
“Is there much money, Dave?” questioned Ned.
“About fifty dollars.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Return it to the owner.”
“Of course, but how are you going to get it to him?”
“I’ll find a way,” replied Dave thoughtfully. “He will be pretty glad to
get back that medal.”
“I should think so, too.”
Dave carefully replaced the pocket book in the sweater, rolled it up,
and stowed it in the corner of the seat space. Then he took up the lines
and started up Dobbin, both he and Ned walking along beside the wagon.
Ned had been dazzled with the sight of the valuable contents of the
sweater bundle, and could talk of nothing else. Dave let him talk, and
did not say much. He had the broken wagon and a thought of the way that
mishap would stir up his guardian on his mind, and it was not a very
pleasant thing to think about. At the same time, Dave had a vague
glimmering idea that events were framing up that brought him in closer
touch all the time with aeronautics.
“Say, Dave, I’ll go home with you if you like,” suggested Ned, as they
neared the Towner place.
“Thank you, Ned, but I don’t think you had better.”
“I could help you put up the horse and all that, you know.”
“No,” responded Dave definitely. “There’s a storm to face, and I might
just as well face it alone and have it over with.”
“Tell me what you decide to do about getting that stuff back to the
airship man, won’t you?”
“I certainly shall.”
“I wish you could arrange to take it to this Mr. King yourself, Dave,”
went on Ned. “He would be sure to appreciate it, and help you get an
insight into the doings down at the aero meet in which you are so
interested. Well, see you to-morrow! Good night!”
“Good night, Ned,” responded Dave, and started on his lonely way. He
wondered how his guardian would take his late coming and the broken
wagon. As the rail supporting the broken wheel clattered over the rutty
road leading into the yard, Dave drew Dobbin to a halt and stared up
wonderingly at the one side window of the barn loft.
There Dave saw a light, or rather the receding radiance of a light, as
if some person was just descending the stairs with a lantern. It was a
very unusual circumstance for anybody to visit the loft except himself.
He had always used it as a work room, the grain and hay being stored in
a shed built onto the stable. The next moment Mr. Warner came out from
the barn.
He carried a lantern in one hand. In the other was a big sledge hammer.
The old man looked ugly, excited and was out of breath. The moment he
caught sight of Dave he hurried forward, dropping the hammer.
“Aha! so you’ve got home at last, have you?” he snarled.
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid I am a little late,” said Dave.
“A little late—a little late!” snarled the old man. “You’re two hours
behind time. Now then, I want to know what this means?”
“I was delayed in finding Mr. Swain at the warehouse,” explained Dave,
“but I don’t make that an excuse. There were some airships going over
the town. Everybody was looking at them, and I couldn’t help doing it
myself.”
“Airships!” shouted Warner. “Well, there’s one airship, as you call ’em,
that won’t fill your head with nonsense any more.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Dave anxiously.
“I mean that I won’t stand you loitering and wasting my time any more,”
declared Dave’s guardian. “I mean that I’ve settled one end of your
nonsense. I’ve smashed that crazy model of yours, and if I hear any more
of this airship rot, I’ll give you the trouncing of your life.”
“You’ve—smashed—my—model!” gasped Dave, in unspeakable amazement and
dismay.
“Yes, I have. What about it?” challenged the irate old tyrant.
“You dared to—” began Dave, his face on fire, and he felt as if he could
no longer control himself. Then fortunately at just that moment there
was a diversion. His guardian’s eye chanced to fall upon the dismantled
wagon with one wheel gone and the box supported by the dragging fence
rail.
With a shriek of rage that was almost a bellow he grabbed Dave by the
arm and dragged him up to the wrecked vehicle.
“Who did that?” he raged. “Don’t tell me—it’s a piece of spite work! Who
did that, I say?”
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